


Wasteland Fever

by hairbearstare



Series: Dreams [1]
Category: Inception (2010), Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-02-03
Packaged: 2018-09-21 20:17:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9564695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairbearstare/pseuds/hairbearstare
Summary: Max wasn't sure what he was looking for, driving through the desert. It certainly wasn't this.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everybody. I haven't written anything in probably six years almost. Woops? Don't know what inspired me here, but hey, there needs to be more Mad Max and Inception crossovers.

The Wastes seemed to stretch on forever; hot, dry, and merciless. Yellow-red sand dunes spanned in every direction, with no signs of life except the sharp winds whipping up dust. It was easy to get lost out there. The landscape was ever-changing, and no maps still existed to help those trying to make their way through the arid desert.

It was a good thing Max had no particular place he was going.

The Yamaha R1 motorcycle given to him by the Vuvalini was stocked full of water, food, and essentials to survive in the harshly fluctuating climate. Max couldn't remember when he left the Citadel—weeks ago? Months ago? Time seemed to blend together out there. He'd so far managed to avoid gangs of bandits, Raiders and mutants, but it was only a matter of time before they crossed paths. It was why Max slept under a black tarp, a sawed-off shotgun gripped tightly in one hand.

He was heading south—just to see what was there, and to continue to try and outrun his ghosts. The further he went, the scarcer the colonies and settlements became. Maybe he was heading in the wrong direction. Was there a right direction? The world was dead every way he went.

Max drove to the top of a sand dune, to have a vantage point and gauge what was around him. The goggles over his eyes were caked in sand, as was just about everything else he was wearing. He pulled the goggles off his face, and the bandanna covering his nose and mouth down to his neck. The sun beat down on his exposed face as he booted down the kickstand on his bike. The engine killed immediately.

The desert opened up in every direct, nothing but dust from horizon to horizon.

Max grunted to himself. The gas he had bartered for at the last settlement was running low. He'd be as good as dead without a top-up. Impossible to survive alone in the Wastes with no ride. His fingers twitched along the hem of his leather jacket as he looked in every direction. Keep going south? Head back north? Ride east?

He squinted at the sun, riding low in the west. Almost time to set up camp for the night. His eyes shifted down the steep slope of the dune he was standing on. He'd ride down to the bottom and camp between it and the other that jutted into the sky beside it. Good place to lay low for the night.

He hopped back on his motorcycle and rode quickly down the dune. He set up a small camp for the night—black tarp to hide in the inky darkness of the night, draped over the motorcycle, and a tattered quilt to protect against the freezing temperatures once the sun dipped below the horizon.

Max curled up for the night, trying and failing to ignore the whispers of _Max Max you promised Max_ as he waited for sleep to take him.

 

-

 

Max woke with a start—he always did.

Damn ghosts knocking around in his head. _You promised_ they would hiss into his ear, clatter around in his skull. He had. He had promised to protect them. His failure to do so still tasted bitter on his tongue.

He pushed the tarp off of his body and the bike, shoved his sawed-off shotgun back into his shoulder holster. He would keep going somewhere today—south? East? As far as he knew he could be traveling in a circle. Could even be dead, trapped in some sort of Limbo. Could have died back fighting Immorten Joe, fell off his rig before Furiosa caught him. Max wasn't even sure anymore.

As he packed away his camp, the sunrise started to colour the sky purple and yellow. That's when Max noticed it.

A shape on top of a sand dune to the east. A dark little smudge on the horizon. Max squinted, and from what he could make out, it was a bike.

Adrenaline spiked in his blood. A bike meant a person—person meant trouble. Raiders? A trap to lure him out? No scenario was good in this case. He either goes to investigate and potentially get jumped, or he makes a run for it and gets run down by Raiders.

Max balled his fists up. He moved quickly to his motorcycle and dug around in the bags. He shoved the Glock 17 he kept in one of them into the back of his pants, and a Bowie knife into his boot. Bike might have meant people, but it also meant gas, something which Max was in current short supply of. Owner of the bike was probably dead anyways.

He trekked up the sand dune, trying to stay as quiet as he could. He crawled towards the bike, eyes darting from side to side, watching for Raiders. When no one came, he ran towards it and tried to shove open the gas cap, hoping to siphon out some fuel.

That was when he heard a groan. It came from a pile of cloth half-buried by sand. Max realized it must be a person under there. He pulled the sawed-off shotgun out of his shoulder holster, cocked it, and aimed it at whoever was buried under that sand.

“Don't move,” Max growled.

A set of eyes emerged from the sand, bloodshot and blinking slowly. They widened once whoever it was realized what was going on. “I'm alone.”

The voice was deep, hoarse with dehydration.

“Can't trust you,” Max said, eyes darting around, waiting for something to break the silence—gunfire, engines, screams. But nothing.

“I'm alone,” the voice repeated. The figure slowly started to rise, and Max tightened his grip on his shotgun.

“You got gas?” Max asked, gesturing to the bike.

“Yeah. You'll need a key to open that gas cap though,” the voice—a man by the sound of it—said. His voice was calm and even.

Max nodded and gestured for the man to get up. They both stood slowly, Max keeping the shotgun trained on the other man. The other man had a muddy brown scarf wrapped around his head, leather bracers around his wrists, a thin, tattered t-shirt that may have once been white on, some kind of dirt-stained cargo pants and heavy black boots. He was thin, probably hadn't eaten in awhile. Locks of brown, wavy hair fell over his sharp cheekbones. His lips were chapped and cracked, probably had been bleeding recently. He looked about ready to die.

As Max watched the other man reach towards the gas cap, and push a key in to open it, he suddenly felt a sharp pain in his thighs. He fell straight backwards, and realized that the motorcycle had been pushed on top of him. Before he could process what was going on, the other man was leaping over the bike and on top of Max.

Max growled viciously, the other man knocking the shotgun out of his hand. He reached up and grabbed the other man by the head, trying to use it as leverage to shove him off. The other man gave Max a swift punch to the side of the head, swearing as he did. He shoved his knee into Max's chest, hands scrambling to grab at Max's throat as Max shoved him backwards into the bike.

“Son of a bitch!” the other man shouted, as he rolled off the bike, feeling around it for something as Max pulled the Glock out of his pants.

Max cocked the gun loudly and pressed it straight into the other man's temple.

“Don't. Move,” Max repeated, voice a low snarl.

The other man let out a sharp laugh. “Okay. Okay...” He was breathing heavily, sounding ragged. “Take what you want, I'm a dead man either way.”

Max raised an eyebrow. “Wouldn't be no dead man if you ain't attacked me.”

The other man rolled his eyes. “No water left. No settlements in sight. Might as well be dead.” His eyes flicked up, looking at Max straight in the face for the first time. His eyes widened and he took in a shaky breath. “...Eames?”

Max grunted and took a step back. It was as if all the anger melted off the other man's face. Must be another trick.

“Eames, it's me, Arthur.” There was a terrible softness on the man's face. No room for softness in the Wastes. “I've been looking for you and everyone else, I swear...”

The man's eyes rolled back into his head as he passed out in the sand. Must have been hallucinating.

Max stayed silent and waited a few moments to make sure this wasn't some other trick. The other man—Arthur, apparently—was out cold. Max sprung into action immediately, tearing apart the bags strapped onto Arthur's bike. Blankets, knives, a revolver with no ammo, some matches and two jerrycans of gasoline. Jackpot.

Max grabbed the cans and started to slide down the sand dune. He got to his bike and started filling it up when his eyes flicked back up to Arthur's bike. No movement. He could almost hear the women screaming into his ears— _are you really going to leave him for dead? Would you have left us for dead? Left me?_

Furiosa's voice was clanging behind his eyeballs. Max didn't need more ghosts following him around.

_You promised Max you promised—_

Max pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, a pained sound escaping from him.

Fine.

He wasn't exactly feeling happy as he grabbed a jug of water and hauled it back up the sand dune. He got to the top, and Arthur was still laying with his face in the sand. His breathing sounded laboured. Max sighed and kicked him over so he was laying on his back. It was the first time Max was able to get a good look at his face. He was young, couldn't have had more than nineteen years in the Wastes. He was probably born on them.

Max sighed through his nose, and tipped the kid's head back so his mouth lay open. He carefully started pouring water into Arthur's mouth, and over his chapped lips. Nothing happened for a moment before Arthur took a breath and inhaled water. His eyes shot open, and he coughed, sputtered and choked as water dribbled down his chin. What a waste.

Arthur doubled over, sucking in breath after breath. He looked back at Max, eyes wide. “What are you doing?”

“Saving your life,” Max said, voice flat.

“Feels like you're trying to drown me.” A hint of a smile moved across Arthur's face. He looked desperately at the jug of water. Max passed it to him with a grunt.

Arthur drank in long, deep gulps from the jug, only stopping to breathe. Max wasn't entirely pleased when the jug was passed back and almost half of it was gone.

“Thank you,” Arthur said. He sounded genuine.

Max didn't say anything in return, just stared at Arthur. “You called me some name. Ain't my name.”

“Oh,” Arthur said, “sorry. You just... look like someone I knew once.”

“Not a dead man.”

“He's not dead,” Arthur snapped. “He's not. We just... we were separated. Me and my clan. Been looking for them since.”

“You're a fool then,” Max said. Anyone separated on the Wastes with no food or water were dead men.

Arthur shut his mouth, pressing his lips into a tight line. “Maybe.”

They sat in silence for a moment. “Can trade you water for some gas,” Max said, “so you don't die.”

Arthur laughed a little. “Sure.”

 

-

 

Max left Arthur there, a jug of water traded for a jerrycan of gasoline. Both parties left happy. Neither of them dead. It quieted the ghosts for a little while at least.

He continued south, no sign of anyone for days. He began to wonder if anything lived past where he was—Alice Springs maybe? Who knows how far south he had driven. He hadn't hit the salt flats yet, so he wasn't so far south yet.

Max was camped out next to a dead tree for the night when his ears picked up the sound of a single engine in the distance. He grabbed his Glock and shotgun, and poked his head out from underneath the black tarp. It was pitch black out, the only light the moon and stars above. He waited for what seemed like hours before he saw a headlight driving in the distance.

A single bike sped across the sand. A fool, Max thought, to be driving at night.

Max took the opportunity to cock his shotgun, the bike speeding right towards him. He fired at the ground in front of the bike, which caused the driver to veer hard to the left. The bike tumbled over roughly, the driver rolling through the sand. Max scrambled over and pointed the shotgun at the driver.

It was Arthur.

Max growled, and steadied his aim. “Why you following me?” he managed to bite out.

Arthur put his hands above his head, breathing heavily with his cheek pressed into the sand. “Repaying the favour.”

“Favour?”

“You saved my life. I'm saving yours.”

“How?”

“You're driving the wrong way.”

Max paused. He slowly lowered his gun to his side, finger still steadied over the trigger.

“I've been south. Came from there,” Arthur said, “nothing that way but sand and death.”

“Why should I trust a lone fool?” Max asked cautiously.

“Because I'm the only sane person you've seen in weeks.”

Max scoffed. It was true, though. Arthur wasn't a Raider, a bandit, and as far as he could tell, wasn't a psychotic mutant cannibal trying to eat him. He threw his shotgun to the ground and extended a hand to the kid. He took it, and they were suddenly both on their feet. “Where should I be going then?”

“East,” Arthur said. “I haven't been to the east yet. I hear there are colonies near Brisbane and Cairns.”

Max clenched and unclenched his fists. East near the eastern salt flats. Survivors in colonies. Rumors thrown through the dust, making their way back to him. He's heard them before.

“We could help each other,” Arthur offered.

Max's eyebrows shot up. “No.”

“Why not? I'm looking for the members of my clan. I have gas, you have water and food. You're looking for... something. We could help each other survive out here.”

“Your clan's dead,” Max deadpanned.

“They're not,” Arthur said through clenched teeth. “They're out there. I know they are.”

Max looked at the kid's face. He was determined to survive, from what Max could see in the moonlight. His eyebrows were knit together, eyes blazing.

Max grunted and picked up his shotgun. “East, you say.”

Arthur let out a relieved sigh. “Yeah. East.”

“Well,” Max grumbled, “set up. We'll leave in the morning.”

Arthur's smile was blinding, even in the dim light of the moon.

 

-

 

They rode east together. It was mutually beneficial, really. Arthur had gas, and Max had food and water. They didn't have to travel east long before happened across a settlement. It had water, gas, weapons, even books up for trade. Arthur traded a dirty pair of sunglasses for half of a ragged book. Max thought that was odd. What was the point of having books in this world?

They drove off after stocking up. Set up a dark camp miles away. Arthur was trying to read the book in the half-light of dusk.

“What you doing?” Max grunted.

“Reading,” Arthur replied.

“Why?” Max didn't know why he was asking. It was bothering him.

“Because...” Arthur faltered, “the leader of my clan taught me to read. I never knew why. But he had books and books from before. Books about cities, and fantasies, and fairy tales. It's like... it's an escape from all the shit that's happening now. I understand why he taught me now.”

Max gave a non-committal reply. The book he was reading—well, half of one—was called _The Martian_ , or so he could make out from the spine.

“It's about a man trapped on Mars,” Arthur said, as if Max had asked. “Can you believe we used to think it was possible for people to travel to Mars?”

Max shrugged and laid on his back underneath the sky. The sun was burning away the horizon in reds and pinks and purples, the light slowly disappearing. Arthur was earnestly reading the ratty book in his hands, long fingers turning away at the pages until he couldn't see anymore and the light was gone.

They set up camp quickly after that.

Max was in a fitful sleep when he woke up to someone's hands on him. His first instinct was to panic, before he felt lips pressed against his own. His next instinct was to devour.

He pressed hungrily against the other person, eyes tightly glued from sleep. His hands shot up and bunched themselves in fabric, pressing underneath and feeling soft skin. He groaned against the other mouth, still half-awake, arching his back to meet another body.

“ _Eames...”_ a voice whispered.

_Max Max you promised—_

His wife's voice seemed to shout in his ear. He let out a yelp and shoved the other body off of him, eyes wild as he stared at Arthur's face across from him. “Don't,” he hissed through his teeth, all he could manage.

Arthur scrambled out of the tent without saying anything.

 

-

 

Max was halfway tempted to leave Arthur there after the stunt he pulled last night. Maybe Arthur wasn't as sane as he made himself out to be. Maybe he was as cracked as Max was. A broken man. They were all sort of broken out there in the Wastes though, weren't they?

They continued on as usual, moving east. Arthur didn't speak much to Max after that. Max didn't blame him. He could've killed Arthur back there, after what he did. He didn't though.

He called Max some other name. Some dead man's name. Max didn't like that, didn't like to be compared to a dead man. He decided he would leave Arthur at the next settlement to continue on to whatever was left of Brisbane or Cairns. Max would go his own way again. It's always how this ended up. He wasn't meant to be with others for extended periods of time. All he brought was destruction.

They came to some grimy colony days later. It was filled with crazies, people rolling in the road. This colony had made their own form on alcohol, it seemed, from fermented grains or vegetables or something grown nearby. Max traded some food for a small flask. He'd missed alcohol. Maybe it would quiet the ghosts still itching at the inside of his skull.

He took a swig of it, and the burn filled his throat immediately, creeping up the base of his head.

Max waited for Arthur still. Even what happened that night, he couldn't find it in himself to drive off. They had somewhere to go, somewhere to be.

They drove away together. They set up camp.

Max drank deeply from the small flask. The words of the ghosts floated woozily in his mind.

_MaaAAAxx—_

So close to forgetting. He missed whisky. Even as a cop, liquor was the best way to forget the day's hardships. Now the hardships were there to burn raw into his being. No forgetting. It never got easier.

Max flung his arm over his eyes.

_Maaaaxxxx—_

He growled and shook his head from side to side.

_Max—_

He scraped his fingers through his hair. _Get out of my head get out of my head—_

“Hey _—_ ”

Max roared as his hand came up, catching something soft on the backhand.

Arthur yelped, holding the side of his face as Max sat up. Fuck.

Max stared as Arthur rubbed his face, eyebrows tightly knit together. They said nothing to each other for what felt like ages.

“Why did you stop me?”

“What?” Max breathed out, head swimming from the liquor.

“You stopped me. You wanted it, it seemed like. For awhile.”

Max growled to himself. It was too much. He put his head in both hands and started to stand, stumbling a bit as he did.

Arthur rolled is eyes and stood, placing his hands on Max's shoulders. “I want you.”

Max shook his head, but the voices were quiet.

Arthur moved forward, pressing his mouth against Max's chin, hands, cheeks, again and again and again until they found his mouth. His hands fisted into Max's hair, tongue moving over his lips. Max grunted as Arthur pushed him over onto his back

Something desperate crawled its way out from deep inside Max. His hands clawed at the sand as Arthur pushed their bodies together. Their mouths moved in a messy tangle, breath catching in Max's throat. He was so close to someone. So close to another person again. He wasn't exactly sure what to do except keep moving his mouth and arching his back to keep them closer.

The liquor kept the ghosts at a whisper and he could just focus on feeling Arthur's body against his own, so warm and so foreign.

He knows he should stop. Knows Arthur didn't really want him, but wants whatever dead man he's searching for. But it didn't matter. They moved against each other, mouths desperate and hands searching, groping at whatever they could find.

Max wasn't sure when they stopped, but they were laying next to each other, breathing heavily, cheeks flushed and pants damp.

“Max.”

“What?” Arthur croaked, voice heavy with either sleep or despair.

“My name is Max.”

 


End file.
